To love is to die and be born again in another world, to slough the skin of the terrene and be robed in all the supernal glory of the celestial. Love changes as Death, it effaces the past, it brightens the future, beautifies as the hand of some mystic artist, all misery, all sorrow, all woe, overwhelming, illimitable.
Come, love, and kiss my shoulders! Sleepy lies
The tinted bosom whence its fire flies,
The breathing life of thee, and swoons, and sighs,
None but the dead can know the worth of love!
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Come, love, thy lips, curved hollow as the moon’s!
Bring me thy kisses, for the sea-wind tunes,
The song that soars, and reads the starry runes,
None but the dead can tune the lyre of love!